


A Deed Without Name

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: Backstage [9]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:36:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What is't you do?"</p>
<p>"Seek to know no more."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Deed Without Name

**Title:** A Deed Without Name  
 **Warning:** _“Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble”_ (mechanical repair) and _“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes”_ (mindgames)  
 **Rating:** Pg-13  
 **Continuity:** _Backstage_ G1  
 **Characters:** Thundercracker, Thrust, Hook, Bonecrusher, Mixmaster  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _”More of Seekers. Like in Backstage. More battlefield interactions. More Air Command squabbles, paranoid power-plays and crazy mind-games, just more of all of them.”_ and the 3 Witches’ lines from Macbeth, Act 4.

 

[* * * * *]  
”Seek to know no more.”  
[* * * * *]

 

In the Decepticons, delegation was a sign of weakness. If a mech didn’t want the responsibilities that came with a commission, then obviously he didn’t want the commission very much. Those who took the duties were just as likely to take the position before too long. On the other wing, Decepticons admired a mech who could delegate duties before they overwhelmed him _and_ successfully keep his position. 

Starscream and Megatron were a perfect example of both sides of this balancing act. Megatron had delegated the Decepticon Armada to an Air Commander, ceding to the reality that a grounder couldn’t utilize flyers as efficiently as another flyer could. In admitting that fact, however, he’d opened himself up to continual power-grabs from the Air Commander. Starscream’s greed for more power was seen as a natural result of Megatron’s delegation. Other commanders and generals were no different as the Supreme Commander handed off units and areas to them.

Now, the fact that Megatron kept control over the Decepticons was the part that earned the Decepticons’ respect. The Supreme Commander earned that title every time some ambitious underling tried to grab his power. Infighting among the officer hierarchy was a given. Staying on top was the tricky part.

Long story short, officers in the Decepticons actually _worked_.

That being said, it would have been foolish of Starscream to not utilize his available resources. Part of the image projected to the Autobots on Earth was that the Elite were not working nearly as hard as they should be. Contact with the Decepticons on Cybertron? No, of course not! The Elite on Earth were too busy being absolute nutcases to be vicious conquerors! The Earth Decepticons were absorbed in trying to take over Earth, not coordinating a massive deception and offworld campaign!

Therefore, if it appeared that Starscream was busy all the time, eventually even the Earth-mad Autobots were going to wonder what exactly he was so busy doing. Starscream had to seem cowardly, incompetent, and free to screw about as he wished when he wished. This was not an image supported by the Air Commander of the Decepticons, more commonly found processing real-time reports from the frontlines than stabbing Megatron in the back. If the Autobots grew suspicious enough to take a second look at him, somebody over in that den of crazy known as the _Ark_ was going to pick up on the fact that the Decepticons’ presence on Earth was nothing more than a distraction. 

So Starscream -- reluctantly -- delegated. It increased his efficiency but also the risk of usurpation. There was nothing worse than handing ambitious subordinates the means to take responsibility and credit away from their superior. Getting a taste for the job and the idea that it was there for the taking brewed dissention among those with great -- or, frag, even mediocre -- ambition. Ambition was only useful when it wasn’t directed at one’s own rank.

After the Bruticus episode, Starscream revised his delegation policies. No one would ever say he was generous, but he didn’t seem quite so reluctant to hand down duties. He’d made his point well: nobody, but nobody, in the Decepticon Elite could fill his position. 

Not, at least, without fatal consequences. Skywarp had tried, and look what had happened there! Starscream had returned, and Skywarp had survived, but it hadn’t been easy on anyone involved. Thrust had all but panicked, fearing a similar fate when the situation on Pentayear had temporarily promoted him.

Thundercracker understood this. He understood the situation on Earth. He understood Starscream’s reluctance and then his confidence post-Bruticus. He even understood why the Air Commander would find it easier to delegate to Skywarp and Thrust, now that both subordinates were well and truly cowed. Really, using the two ex-Air Commanders made sense. Skywarp and Thrust had already taken on the burden of command duties. It was simpler for Starscream to hand off responsibility to them since they already had experience in how to fulfill those responsibilities -- and also in how Starscream’s displeasure in trying to steal those responsibilities away could send their lives straight to the smelting pits. 

He knew why Skywarp had been promoted over him. Thundercracker had his doubts about Megatron’s Cause, quiet as he was on the subject, and he knew that counted against him. He was not an ostentatious mech, prone to throwing his weight about and generally being high-maintenance as well as high-energy. Higher rank went to the mechs bossy enough to use it, usually. Thundercracker was ‘the quiet one’ of his wing, or ‘the level-headed one,’ not the one everyone’s optics automatically followed. 

The fact was that Thundercracker just didn’t want to be Air Commander. The position had a large target painted on it. He’d rather be the overlooked one. The one everyone’s optics shot to was also the one most likely to be shot. 

Thundercracker had power. He ranked Third in the Armada, which was no position to scoff at. He had pride of place in the Armada and in the Air Commander’s own wing. When out from under the hyperactive and strident-voiced shadows of his wingmates, he projected an undeniable presence. He’d just rather rest on his laurels than stand out and die for them. Where the other officers in the Elite had ambition, Thundercracker had patience. Skywarp had raw ability; Thundercracker had well-honed skill. Thrust had the luck to be in the right place at the right time, and the sheer audacity to push that luck; Thundercracker’s plans were so carefully laid they never relied on luck at all.

Thundercracker understood it all, from Starscream’s caution to Skywarp’s submission to Thrust’s boldness. That did not mean he liked it.

Skywarp was fine. He had been Skywarp’s wingmate for millions of years. They got along as well as any Decepticons did. There was a solid system of checks and balances between them, companionship and politics leveling into a stable working relationship. 

Thrust, however, was not fine. Not fine at all. The ranks on Cybertron had been thrown into chaos by his sudden, if misleading and very temporary, promotion to Air Commander. The fact that he _hadn’t_ challenged Starscream’s control had earned some contempt from those who saw him as weak, but most of the Armada looked at Thrust as unaccountably wise for knowing his limits. They also looked at him now with a new thoughtfulness. A flyer who was strong and reckless on the battlefield but minded the rules off it could be very dangerous…and promotion material. 

The problem being that there were no open positions to promote him into, unless there was a sudden vacancy among the higher ranks. 

This situation was not okay in any way, shape, or form, and Thundercracker did not _like_ Thrust. He didn’t like Thrust’s ambition or careful assumption of more of the Air Commander’s duties. Never too many, and the Conehead never took more than Starscream doled out, but there was power-greed beneath the justified fear of Starscream’s wrath. Thundercracker could see if in the way the obnoxious flyer was always willing to accept another duty, help out an extra bit, was there whenever needed. Thundercracker saw it, and he _did not like it._

He especially did not like the way Thrust stood beside Starscream on the command deck, wings angled toward the Air Commander in blatant body language that grew more possessive by the day. The mech always kept a properly respectful distance between them, never nonchalantly brushing up against Starscream’s shoulder or wing the way Skywarp sometimes did, but there were times when one of the Conehead’s legs turned. The attached wing would invade personal space. Not a lot, of course. Not enough to draw Starscream’s attention. Not enough that Thundercracker could call him out on it. 

Just an angle of a leg, a flick of a wing, and anyone who happened to glance at Air Commander and adjunct helper at that moment would see Thrust practically declaring, _”Mine.”_

Oh, Thundercracker did not like that one bit. 

He liked it even less when he logged into the bridge shift to find that someone had been browsing his personnel files. There were only two other mechs above his office in the Armada, and Thundercracker had long ago seeded relevant files in the system with rank-tags set to alert him upon opening by lower ranked passcodes. The log from this set of tags registered a specific ID code. Did Thrust think he was stupid? Had the Conehead that low an estimation of his intelligence? Thundercracker hadn’t gotten to be in the Air Commander’s wing by being an idiot. ‘The quiet one’ was usually seen as the weak link, as well. 

He flicked a glare in the direction of the two flyers murmuring together over by Starscream’s station. Thrust ever-so-casually met that glare with a blank look. _”Mine,”_ radiated from the red-and-black flyer’s wings. Apparently, whatever he’d seen in Thundercracker’s files had infused him with a sense of confidence.

Thundercracker knew what he’d seen. The files were unexpectedly mild for such a high-ranked officer: no execution of rebellious subordinate officers, no attempts on Starscream’s position, no scandals following his rise through the ranks. Usually there were at least rumors of assassinations when officers were promoted to replace the recently dead or disgraced, but Thundercracker had slid through the gaps of Decepticon military procedure to settle, strangely graceful, into his current rank. Thundercracker was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, but the mech described in those files hardly seemed threatening when compared to Skywarp’s trail of ‘disappeared’ superior officers or, well, Starscream.

Thrust wanted a promotion. He wanted a fighting chance to be Starscream’s legitimate successor, and that meant being in close proximity. Skywarp’s rank barely edged out Thundercracker’s, and then only by a technicality: Skywarp had been transferred into the wing first. The wingmate positions were nearly equal, and had Thundercracker wanted to, he could have fought Skywarp for the Air Commander position before Megatron stepped in. He hadn’t wanted to, however. 

Thrust wanted into Starscream’s wing. The only way to get that promotion was through one of the mechs already filling it, and Thundercracker’s lack of ambition plus the history recorded in the personnel files made it seem obvious who the target should be.

He wanted Thundercracker’s spot. 

The red-and-black flyer arrogantly turned his back, pointedly snubbing the blue Seeker. Thundercracker watched him a moment more, optics slowly narrowing as thick rage seeped through his thoughts like poison. Starscream absently shifted his weight, responding to the wing encroaching on his personal space bubble instead of lashing out at it, and Thundercracker’s lips flattened into a grim line. Thrust thought him weak. A challenge, some pressure to surrender or back off, and what? Did he think Thundercracker would fold, just like that?

Thrust wanted _his_ wing. The only way that would happen was over the Seeker’s dead, empty spark chamber.

Which was perhaps the point, but knowing Thrust, the mech wasn’t expecting that much of a fuss. Thundercracker had never been the sort to engage in futile shouting matches or brawls that might get him written up on report. Fistfights, while satisfying, ended in a cell or the wrong end of a gun more often than not. Thundercracker tended to back down rather than escalate personal conflicts, favoring calm reason over losing his temper. Some mechs could see how his quiet nature circumvented loud, public confrontations in favor of private settlements that ultimately accomplished more. Others, like Thrust, only saw the floorshow instead of more important backstage maneuvering.

Thrust had some brains, but more brawn. Thundercracker had the brawn, too, but, as Starscream frequently groused, mechs tended to forget how to be Decepticons instead of merely war machines. Power plays had more to them than whaling on a problem until it died. 

Thundercracker’s hands moved steadily across the console, unhurried and double-checking. Anger simmered under his calm, but he knew hot things cooled quickly. Bubbles burst and were gone, brief moments of blind fury that wouldn’t sustain him. Cold, frigid rage was twice as dangerous as any blazing display of anger, and it lasted longer. Everyone knew Starscream was annoying when he shrieked unholy fury, but he scared the wings off smart mechs when he seethed quietly. Just because Thundercracker didn’t rant and swear didn’t mean he wasn’t _dangerous_. Subtlety could be just as lethal. 

Soundwave sent an acknowledgement ping back when the rearranged bridge shift went through. The scheduling change had received a co-sign from the repairbay, so there were no questions and not a second look. Hook had accepted Thundercracker’s request for an urgent maintenance appointment and wanted him to show up ASAP, and everyone knew repairbay waited for no mech, current duties be slagged. Thundercracker would be reassigned to patrol later to make up for the missed shift. 

He logged a request for a specific patrol partner and attached an explanation note to make sure the request went through. The note ensured that Blast Off’s parole officer would take an interest as well. The fall-out from that would be off the record and rather petty, but could just as easily be chalked up to a grumpy mech wanting a quiet shift. Getting stuck patrolling with a blabbermouth for a patrol partner would push anyone’s last nerve after an extensive maintenance check.

Without a word, Thundercracker logged off his console and left the command deck. Thrust’s optics followed him, and he could _feel_ the Conehead gloating. The fragger.

Thundercracker chose to take the scenic route down to repairbay. It wasn’t a leisurely stroll, but he did take the time for a meandering tour of the ship. He visited the main corridors leading from command deck to the lowest levels of the ship. Thundercracker casually paused in each one, looking straight into the cameras, even the hidden ones. His grim expression never changed as he code-locked all six of the main hatches and several of the minor cross-corridor hatches. It wouldn’t bother most of the Decepticons, who tended to use the drop-shafts around the circumference of the ship to fly to whatever level they needed to get to. It’d be a minor inconvenience for _most_ of those in the ship. The ones it bothered would be too low-ranked to unlock the code. 

What a shame.

A strange smile flitted about the blue Seeker’s lips as the last hatch bleeped and sealed. He headed for the repairbay at a brisk walk, humming an old military tune to himself in time with his steps.

Hook met him at the repairbay door. As in, the Constructicon opened the door as he walked up, then barred the way by standing in the doorway looking at him. Critical optics raked him over, searching for damage that wasn’t there. Thundercracker stood there as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be standing out in the hall. Being studied like an unexpected impurity caught in a filter trap? Ho hum, just another day for Thundercracker. 

“Urgent maintenance,” Hook said, voice judging.

Skywarp did innocent. He did it in a way that was most definitely not. Thundercracker just seemed a bit wary, as if suspicious of anyone who would question his story. What was Hook implying? What was his angle? “Yes.”

“I see.” And the Constructicon’s voice made it clear he certainly did. “You may as well come in, then.” He stood aside, letting the Seeker pass, and muttered under his breath, “Let’s get this over with.”

Thundercracker nodded a greeting to Bonecrusher and Mixmaster, who stared back at him from the other side of the central surgery table with flat, almost hostile gazes. Mixmaster started to set up the hoses for a fluid flush, and Bonecrusher began cranking the table up. Behind Thundercracker, the door slid shut. 

“Oh, don’t rush on my account,” the Seeker said demurely. The odd smile was back, flirting with pale lips. “I’m in no hurry.”

The room stumbled. Bonecrusher froze, suddenly unable to look away from the levers under the table. Mixmaster fumbled an injector for half a second, spilling a splash of brilliantly neon coolant. Hook’s vents hitched audibly. Thundercracker walked to the table and pivoted, a long, deliberate move that started at his turbines, twisted elegantly through his hips, and ended with the slow turn of his helm. He turned just far enough, just until he could meet Hook’s visor-covered optics, and the smile widened into something usually kept caged. 

The Constructicon surgeon’s mouth moved through an unspoken thought as he met the blue Seeker’s red gaze. What finally came out sounded like’s Hook’s regular caustic arrogance, but the mech took a step back as he spoke. “It’s like that, is it?” One hand went back, and the door lock engaged. An additional override clicked into place, and a manual deadbolt.

Confusion, puzzlement, wounded innocence; now what on Cybertron could Hook be talking about? Why did Hook have to be so mean to poor widdle Seekers? “Like what?” Thundercracker said softly, cocking his head to the side, and Bonecrusher and Hook exhaled as one. The injector in Mixmaster’s hands snapped, breaking in two under a too-tight grip, and the moment passed. 

“Get on the table,” Hook ordered abruptly. 

Ever courteous but always superior, Thundercracker swept a mocking bow and obeyed. He hefted himself onto the table and swung his feet up before laying back carefully, twitching his wings to settle them against the cooler metal.

Hook’s gestaltmates shook themselves and returned to prepping the table, but now they moved quickly. Their optics strayed from tools and materials often, sizing up the flyer stretching his legs out on the table. Mixmaster stopped and openly stared at the blue armor for a second. He reached between two plates in the flyer’s side and pinched a tube as if calculating volume, and Hook nodded from the other side of the table. The chemist strode off just as suddenly as he’d stopped working. 

Hook didn’t stop working, but part of his attention was dedicated to watching Thundercracker’s wings slide against the table as the flyer trying to get comfortable. The surgeon gave Bonecrusher a brief glance, and the larger Constructicon grunted as if responding to an order. The table crank spooled down, bringing Thundercracker slightly lower, and Bonecrusher adjusted the head of the table to raise the Seeker into a reclining position. The two Constructicons exchanged nods, and Hook stopped laying out the delicate tools of his trade in order to impatiently push and pull at the flyer’s limbs until they were arranged on the table to suit the surgeon’s specifications. Another grunt from Bonecrusher, this time questioning, and Hook watched until the wings stopped their restless shifting before nodding and returning to his side tray. 

Bonecrusher straightened from locking the table levers and grabbed one blue forearm. He rotated it, watching how the arm’s complex weave of gears, tensile cables, and struts moved around the ball joint of the elbow itself. The machinery was hidden by Thundercracker’s heavy armor for the most part, but what Bonecrusher couldn’t see he could hear and scan for. He listened, scowling, and pulled on the forearm as he stepped back, manipulating the Seeker’s whole arm through its range of motion. The grunt this time was disapproving, and Bonecrusher went for a leg next. 

By the time Mixmaster returned with an armful of mysteriously labeled tanks, Bonecrusher had Thundercracker’s left leg extended straight up into the air. The chemist watched his gestaltmate run a hand down a black thigh to rap a knuckle against Thundercracker’s hip. Hook looked at the indicated area thoughtfully, but Mixmaster shouldered Bonecrusher aside to proffer one of the tanks. 

Both Constructicons studied it, interested, as Mixmaster held it under their optics. Whatever was in it provoked scorn from Hook and an unconvinced expression from Bonecrusher. They waved him away, but he immediately produced another tank that got a better response when he earnestly handed off to Hook. The three Constructicons argued about it, pointing fingers at each other and at the label on the tank. Mixmaster threw up his hands and took back his tank, stubbornly plunking it down beside the others on the table’s flush pump mechanism. Hook shook his head but went back to organizing his tools on the side tray. Bonecrusher snorted but seemed to accept the chemist’s decision.

Whatever it was about. Nobody else could know, since the Constructicons hadn’t said a word.

Thundercracker lay on the table and watched the near-silent happenings around him with dimmed optics. He complacently let Bonecrusher test his joints, one by one, contorting him into ridiculous positions as even knuckle joints and back strut joins were bent to their limits. The disapproving grunts continued to rain down upon him, growing more annoyed as each tested joint failed to pass Bonecrusher’s high standards. Hook looked positively thunderous, slamming things down on the tray so hard it rattled. He stalked off, snaring Mixmaster by one shoulder as he went. Now, from out of Thundercracker’s sight, the chemist occasionally broke into maniacal cackles for no apparent reason. 

It was alarming, not knowing what was going on or what would happen. It was unnerving, being the center of attention but completely ignored. It was creepy, seeing and hearing them planning around him but not being able to predict what they would do to him. It was humiliating, being prodded and poked like a doll instead of a mech. It was horrible, being touched everywhere by hands more acquisitive than impartial. 

The Constructicons were in the midst of a full-fledged gestalt commune, shutting out unimportant habits like actually speaking aloud or acknowledging their patient. No Decepticon could like it. Thundercracker could barely tolerate it.

Why did he, then? 

Because everyone knew that Hook was a perfectionist. That was hardly secret. Everyone even knew that Bonecrusher destroyed, purging the imperfect. It was common knowledge that Mixmaster always experimented, continually trying to create more and better and richer. The other Constructicons had their own quirks, but the three mechs bending their glitches on Thundercracker today were the least approachable yet most vulnerable for it. 

So far as Thundercracker knew, nobody else had connected each of the Constructicon’s various neuroses and seen the larger picture. The small glitches were similar, but on a larger scale, they added up to one compulsion. The Constructicons, one and all, sought purity. They were united in an endless _need_ to create perfection. 

Shockwave had been utterly scandalized when Megatron made the decision to risk them on the frontline, even if the frontline on Earth was more of a joke than a battle. They were an essential part of the Earth distraction and the core of the Decepticon Engineering Division back on Cybertron. And, yes, assisting the war effort was what the Decepticons called upon them for. There was no shame in that. 

However proud they were of their abilities and contribution to the Decepticons, though, there was no way to glorify making weapons of war and repairing warriors. Instead of creating to the standards of Crystal City and above, the Constructicons were reduced to fix-its and diversionary equipment. 

The spark-deep desire to perfect grated on the entire combiner team like a geas, but Decepticons didn’t go to the repairbay for perfection. They didn’t even go voluntarily. Going to the repairbay meant injuries, and even the rumor of injury meant weakness. Decepticons chafed to leave as soon as they entered; they never to stayed long enough for perfection. They went to get the dents hammered out and make the pain stop, and they escaped before the Constructicons’ restive hands started finding things to _change_. 

Most mechs didn’t want to be _changed_. The idea of voluntarily submitting to Bonecrusher’s ire, Hook’s ruthlessness, and Mixmaster’s experimental substances would be enough to send brave mechs running. 

Perhaps other Decepticons knew about the compulsion. Perhaps it was just that no other Decepticon could stand to take advantage of it. The Constructicons were anything but gentle when doing repairs. To lay down, let Hook open him up, let Bonecrusher at his internals, let Mixmaster fill him with dubious substances…

It frightened Thundercracker, as it should, but his systems never wavered. His optics remained dimmed even as Hook and Mixmaster came back into sight carrying a tub of steaming liquid between them. His vents cycled easily, in and out, fans controlled and temperature even. Inanimate objects could be beautiful, but beauty was not perfection. Only the living could be perfect. Perfection could only be accomplished by cooperation, unless the Constructicons were willing to taint the final work with terror. The blue Seeker knew about the condemned mechs who ended up under the Constructicons’ hands on tables much like the one he currently lay on, but those poor beings ended in destruction, not evolution. 

Perfection in the living was fleeting but fully satisfying. Living perfection endlessly changed, taking a new form under new circumstances, and Thundercracker alone indulged the Constructicons’ crawling hunger for it. He knew to fear their pitiless quest, but he held it over their collective heads at the same time. He came to them, guilelessly throwing out an offhand comment that sent them scrambling for the opportunity, and he knew what it did to them to have a willing subject. Cooperation, the calm sigh of systems accepting changes as they were made and live feedback in the form of thoughtful, intelligent answers to their questions. Oh, that. Yes, that. It surged heady, pseudo-physical lust through their gestalt-linked sparks, and Thundercracker _knew it did_.

They were professionals; their fingers didn’t so much as quiver, and their faces were unreadable masks. Yet he watched them, knowing, and their ungentle hands touched him as if he were made of glass. The _need_ consumed them, and it made the Seeker so very, very precious. He fed their addiction, and it was both cringingly repulsive and overwhelmingly attractive. 

They hated him for that. 

As Bonecrusher picked up Thundercracker’s arm and lowered it into the tub, beginning a ritual that would leave every joint moving quiet as a ghost and every tensile cable as pliable as a new protoform’s, they loved him for it even more. They loved him for what he would become. 

Mixmaster screwed the flushing lines in and began draining used coolant and lubricant. One of the tanks he’d brought over was tapped and hooked up, pumping fluid an alarming shade of fuchsia in. He knocked on Thundercracker’s cockpit until the canopy popped, revealing latches for opening the Seeker’s torso armor. Mixmaster opened the lower set and opened him up enough to get at the main line between tank and fuel pump. He drew an energon sample and started running tests on it. 

Meanwhile, Hook slid a magnifying lens into one side of his visor and used a wrench the size of his finger to open up the side of the Seeker’s black helm, exposing cerebral circuitry and the vent ducts. “Full power, one klik.” 

Thundercracker obligingly flipped his helm vents to full bore under the surgeon’s sharp optics. Bonecrusher glanced over and snorted, seeming to hear something he didn’t like. Hook’s visor narrowed, studying the vent fins. The Seeker felt him pinch two of them, correcting their angle. Mixmaster reached over and held a hand in front of the air flow, a vacant look crossing his face as he measured pressure and filtration. Thundercracker’s ventilation system didn’t have any red lights up and his filters were adequate, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for the Constructicons. Mixmaster shrugged at Hook, who nodded to Bonecrusher, who left Thundercracker’s arm soaking in order to fetch a swab the size of pin. He had to uncap a finger and extend a pair of tweezers just to hold it.

The Seeker’s optics lit and eyed it sidelong when it was passed to Hook, and the Constructicons tensed as one. Hook was not accustomed to caring about the opinions of his patients. He visibly reined in impatience. The door was always an option. The Constructicons were many, but Seekers were notoriously fast. They could _make_ him stay, but a struggle was the last thing any of them wanted, right here or now. Hook’s mouth thinned, but he waited. 

Thundercracker blinked up at him, looked at the swab that was destined to be stuck uncomfortably near his personality matrix, and smiled, a here-and-gone expression quick as lightning. His optics dimmed back to dark crimson. The three repair mechs relaxed as much as they ever did and went back to work. Hook leaned in and began dabbing clean the tiny mechanisms controlling the vent fins. 

And so it went: every maintenance hatch opened, every plating underside wiped clean, and every gear stripped of grime and old lubricant, then re-oiled to roll smooth and quiet. Hook linked in and checked his systems from the inside, tweaking program specs and correcting the miniscule changes that self-repair had made up to try and deal with Earth’s atmosphere on its own. Bonecrusher realigned armor, forcing out the everyday dents and wavering edges. Hook went under the plating, straightening the network of cables and tubing winding around the struts to maximize efficiency and minimize vulnerability. He rewired Thundercracker’s hands where the knuckle joints had worn away at the last set of sensor transmitters, trying a new configuration and calibrating them precisely.

Thundercracker merely laid there, deep voice bored as he answered the occasion words actually spoken aloud. “No,” he said when Mixmaster asked about the weird fuchsia liquid replacing his coolant. “I don’t taste anything. Should I?”

The chemist didn’t reply. Hook ran a diagnostic on the Seeker’s chemical receptors, paused, and opened Thundercracker’s mouth to look inside. Mixmaster looked at the Seeker inquiringly, and Thundercracker shook his head. A violently yellow fluid got injected into the pump line. Thundercracker waited, then shook his head again. Hook frowned and rearranged his grip on the flyer’s chin, keeping him still. His other hand took a blunt hook off his tool tray, and he stuck it into the Seeker’s mouth to poke around. 

Thundercracker jolted, startled, when it scraped over the inside of his dental molds. All three Constructicons looked annoyed. The scraping continued. Hook ducked his head and peered at the roof of Thundercracker’s mouth as he prodded it with the tool. Annoyance deepened to puzzlement and irritated concern. 

“What?” the Seeker asked, muffled slightly by Hook’s hand.

Hook gave him an impatient jostle with the hand on his chin, reprimanding him for talking, but deigned to answer. “Your chemical receptors are not even active. This is an unusual corrosion location.” Bonecrusher sorted through a parts box, scowling as he searched for a matching set of receptors for the five pairs he’d already set onto the table. “Replacement is necessary.”

That would explain why he wasn’t tasting either hook or Hook. A nicer medic probably would have just asked when he last remembered tasting anything, but Hook was a surgical engineer, not a trained medic. The Constructicon just checked the defunct receptors’ logs. 

Thundercracker kept his mouth open and tried to ignore the awkward feeling of two mechs operating on the inside of his mouth. It got easier when Hook finagled the last of the interior connectors loose and opened up his facial plating. That felt sickening as Thundercracker’s cheeks peeled back to his helm, the insanely complicated emotional response system underneath whirring away as Bonecrusher began cleaning the miniscule soft metal plates, but it let the Seeker’s jaw yawn open to rest on his neck. That gave them both more room to work. It also made Thundercracker feel less like the two repair mechs were trying to stuff their hands down his throat. 

Mixmaster collected the discarded receptors and dropped them into sterile containers for later testing. Thundercracker was betting the corrosion came from constant exposure to Earth’s atmosphere, but the chemist would find out for certain. The blue Seeker felt a little smug that the rest of the Decepticons would likely be subjected to this same procedure soon. Bonecrusher probably wouldn’t fine-tune their facial systems while he was at it, either. Ha. Sometimes being the Constructicons’ glorified Barbie doll had its perks.

The smugness lasted right until the first new receptor came online.

“ **Auugh!** ”

“What?”

“That is **revolting** , get it out!” Thundercracker thrashed, batting away Hook and Bonecrusher and rolling off the table in a move so quick they were left holding empty air. The flush pump’s injectors pulled loose, spraying fluids everywhere, but the Seeker hardly noticed. He was too busy coughing out the fumes he could only taste now. The online receptor sent urgent purge orders to his tanks as analysis came back reading positive for gaseous toxins. He’d complied with Mixmaster’s instructions to bypass his filtration system’s warnings about the solid-grit impurities, but this was awful! 

“Drain it!” He gagged, fighting Hook’s link-in. His hands fumbled, trying to pull the cable out. A retching convulsion threw off his aim, and Hook’s repair override continued to shut down the purge order every time it came up. “Stop it! Stop!”

“You are being absurd,” Hook retorted, stepping around the table to prevent the Seeker from pulling out the interface cable connecting them. Mixmaster scrambled to shut off the spurting pump, but Bonecrusher went around the other side. The two Constructicons advanced slowly, backing the Seeker up against the wall. 

Thundercracker was quite a sight, slurred voice gargling from the middle of exposed facial structure and freely swinging jaw. “I don’t give a frag what you think -- get it **glargh** out of me!” His wings brushed the wall, and even through the wildness of emergency poison protocols, a cornered warrior emerged. Red optics narrowed over clicking gears and tiny pulleys, and black hands clenched to fists. The two Constructicons boxing him in got ready to block any escape attempts.

Scrapper’s voice cracked over them like an electro-whip. “That is **enough** , all of you. Calm down.” The repairbay intercom blared feedback for a moment, then settled into the Constructicon team leader’s sternest tone. “Thundercracker, get back on the table. Mixmaster will drain your tanks.” The chemist slammed containers around, mutinous and angry, and a touch of anger came through in Scrapper’s voice. “I **said** , he will drain them immediately.” Thundercracker knew the biting tone was mostly show for his sake, but it was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get. “Bonecrusher will assist. They will rinse your tanks with cleanser and refill your reservoirs.” The intercom clicked back off. 

The Seeker didn’t stand down. “With what?” he snapped, suspicious. “No more pitslag concoctions!” Fumes seared his receptor, and he coughed, fans rattling.

“With standard coolant,” Hook promised coolly. “Now, if you would cease your dramatics and let us finish working?”

“It’s an internal surface scour. It’s supposed to register like that,” Mixmaster muttered sullenly when Bonecrusher stood aside, letting Thundercracker venture a few steps toward the table.

“Mixmaster!” both his gestaltmates barked, but it was too late. 

Thundercracker darted between Bonecrusher and Hook, catching the interface cable between his medical port and the surgeon and tearing it loose as he ran. He vaulted the table, clearing Mixmaster and tanks in one leap. He slid to a halt in front of the door, one rifle aimed at the locks and the other trained on Mixmaster. This time he had to override the purge order himself, because the moment he dropped his guard one or all of the repair mechs were going to tackle him. 

“You **knew** this would happen!” he accused, jaw swinging.

Bonecrusher and Hook glared at Mixmaster. Mixmaster, in turn, glared at Thundercracker like this was all the Seeker’s fault. “Of course I did! Scours are not meant for regular use. A flush with my new compound will increase cooling system efficiency by 5%, and that kind of result doesn’t come via energon goodie flavor!”

Tanks gurgled nauseously within the Seeker’s torso, but the other two Constructicons were giving Mixmaster mildly surprised looks. Apparently 5% was a good figure indeed. Meaning that it was probably good for him, but scrap iron and _metal_ was that hard to process! Everything from intake protocols up were trying to get the stuff out, and Thundercracker groaned and swayed. He hated fighting his own protocols. Whatever witch’s brew Mixmaster had poured in his tanks, his chemical receptor was beating Thundercracker over the head with its toxicity levels. 

Despite all of that, his arm snapped around to aim his rifle at Bonecrusher when the big Constructicon tried edging closer.

“For Primus’ sake!” Mixmaster threw up his hands and stormed across the repairbay, disappearing through the door to his lab. Thundercracker jumped and nearly threw up tainted fluids before he got a purge override in place. Bonecrusher looked disgusted and Hook seemed exasperated with everyone, but they both watched the Seeker closely. “Fine!” Mixmaster continued ranting from inside. “You want goodies?! I’ll fragging well give you some rusted goodies!” He re-emerged carrying a package of -- energon goodies. “Here. Take the blasted things if it’ll make you happy.”

Thundercracker looked down at the open packet being waved at him. He looked at Mixmaster’s completely unrepentant and thoroughly grouchy expression. The mech obviously didn’t have a clue that what he’d done was beyond rude or was, in fact, wrong in any way. The energon goodies were just the chemist humoring a bad patient. 

The other two Constructicons quite clearly had no idea what to say to fix this situation. They seemed somewhat resigned to the Seeker busting down the door and taking off for parts unknown.

He started laughing. He couldn’t help it. His legs gave out, and he slid slowly down the door, hiccupping as his intakes burped air trying to purge the fumes. They _hurt_ , but by the Unmaker, he was going to have so much to hold over the Constructicons after this, it was ridiculous. 

Loose jaw shaking the force of his laughter, Thundercracker reached out and helped himself to a handful of the goodies. Might as well not waste them, because rust and slag if he wouldn’t need something to chase this awful taste away. He held the gooey treats in one fist and clambered back to his feet. “Alright. Al **ugh** right. Just get this over w-with,” he had to pause to unlock his throat, which had automatically seized up his intakes as a gust of corrosive fumes came up. When he could swallow again, he finished, “Get it over with as fast as possible.”

Bonecrusher approached slowly, looking unconvinced. Also a bit weirded out by the laughter. Laughter was not Thundercracker’s usual _modus operandi_ when threatened, insulted, or bodily modified. “Really?” Red optics gave the Constructicon a truly unimpressed look. “Really,” Bonecrusher concluded and pulled him back toward the table. Hook silently met them halfway and helped the Seeker get back on it. 

“How much of a hurry are you not in?” Bonecrusher asked gruffly as he ran a hand over the small scrapes the wall had left on blue wings. 

The three mechs followed the scuff marks across Thundercracker’s plating, and the urge to perfect lit all of their optics brilliantly. The Seeker could see their need to strip the old paint nanites and polish the metal clean before reapplying a new coat. It thrummed urgently in Bonecrusher’s electromagnetic field as the Constructicon’s systems primed, ready to start, wanting to start. They _needed_ to correct imperfections more than any of them were willing to admit.

System-sick or not, Thundercracker wasn’t letting that opening pass. “Well…”

The artful hesitation really ground their muted desperation in. “What?” Hook demanded, forcefully redirecting his attention back into installing chemical receptors. 

“I don’t think I should stay off duty too long,” the Seeker said, sounding bizarrely coy even with Hook’s hands in his mouth. The words were slightly slurred but clear enough. “Thrust has been chasing my thrusters lately, and if I give him half an opening, he’ll start taking my slots. Better safe than sorry.”

There was a long klik of quiet. The repairbay echoed with clinks and scuffs as Bonecrusher resumed cleaning and Hook brought another receptor online. There was a sloshing sound as Mixmaster began suctioning the horrid, vile yellow-fuchsia scouring liquid from the flyer’s lines, and the chemist grumbled something distinctly uncomplimentary as Thundercracker gagged. The gag turned to a surprised _gleep!_ when Mixmaster shook another energon goodie from the packet and pushed Hook’s hands aside for a second to pop it directly down the flyer’s throat. Hook elbowed him back out of the way and resumed working as the goodie slowly dissolved on top of an intake, melting into a protective bubble preventing more fumes from coming up. 

“Yes,” Hook finally agreed, painfully neutral.

That one syllable said it all. That one syllable made everything worth it: Hook’s hands taking him apart, Bonecrusher’s contempt, Mixmaster’s wretched experiment. It would have been worth Long Haul’s whining, Scrapper’s anxiety, or Scrapper recasting his armor. Slag, it would have been worth installing a new set of exhaust nozzles. That one syllable had been the whole point.

Thundercracker didn’t relax, but he did meet Hook’s gaze with an innocent look. _His_ innocent look, not Skywarp’s, so the Seeker only seemed vaguely pleased that Hook understood why he didn’t dare leave his station for very long. Poor, put-upon Thundercracker just couldn’t take that chance. Otherwise he’d stay and let the Constructicons work on him. Yep, he sure would. 

“I wouldn’t worry about Thrust,” Bonecrusher rumbled, succumbing to that sweet temptation. Compliance was a wonderful, horrible lure, and the Constructicons walked into Thundercracker’s baited trap with optics open. “He’s due for some maintenance of his own soon.”

Thundercracker gave him wide red optics; why, that sounded like a threat! “If you say so,” he said, reluctant and doubtful. “I suppose I have time, then.”

“Yes, you do,” Hook decided for him, impatient with the subtext. He gave the Seeker an almost-glare, and Thundercracker settled back into good-patient mode meekly. The three Constructicons bent back to their work.

Thundercracker lay under their hands and endured. By the time he’d get out of the repairbay, he’d shine from helm to thrusters. Every system would be fine-tuned, as perfect as two joors of nonstop work could make him. If the compressors set on Hook’s side tray were anything to go on, there was an engine rebuild in his near future as well. The first sonic boom in the next battle was going to shock both factions with its power. Which would be an excellent side-effect, but the mission objective had already been achieved. Anything from here on out was -- his lips twitched around Hook’s hands, smirking -- bonus energon goodies on top of the ration cube.

A message pinged over the network, unobtrusively appearing in Thundercracker’s queue. He opened it idly. Ah, the next deca-cyle’s schedule. As predicted, he was pulling a lot of bridge shifts paired with Soundwave. The Communication Officer would never pass up the opportunity to listen to anything that sounded like home. Stuck here on Earth, the Cassetticon master was under assault by jarring foreign languages, alien noise from radio and satellite, and constant biological interference even when there was no active sound. Add to that the backbiting pranks required by Megatron’s grand deception, and Soundwave suffered. Sharing the command deck with a Seeker sporting a perfectly-tuned body was the closest thing Soundwave could get to returning to Cybertron for a joor or three.

The blue Seeker moaned gratefully as the taste of toxic fumes finally, _finally_ ebbed away. Mixmaster grumbled, but Thundercracker ignored him in favor of pondering his upcoming shifts with Soundwave. Maybe he’d hum some old songs. He was no great singer, but he was one of the few mechs on Earth with a bass-tone vocalizer, and the only one who knew how to use it right. Yes, a few old songs, just hummed or sung low in one of the old dialects from Cybertron, and he wouldn’t even have to hint about erasing the evidence. Thundercracker’s meandering walk through the base earlier would simply disappear, leaving nothing but Thrust’s codes locking the doors in his wake. 

Which, by the time Thundercracker got out of the repairbay, would have thoroughly pissed off the entire Stunticon team. They were the only ones who actually enjoyed racing through the main corridors like manic monkeys, but their daily driving adventures would have been interrupted by the fact that Thrust outranked them. It must have been maddening to find out none of their passcodes overrode Thrust’s lock-code on the corridor hatchways. Oops. Silly Seeker. Thundercracker would just have to unlock those for the crazy cars later. The newbies would take one look at his gloriously-polished wings and off-hand mention of how Thrust had mentioned something about harassing them earlier, and fall for it without even a question asked. 

He’d report for his patrol shift after that. Bombshell would have cerebro-shelled Blast Off into linguistic shut-off for stepping out of line in an earlier mission, and the shuttle wouldn’t speak a word if given a choice. Well, he’d apologize for the earlier slight because otherwise his Insecticon parole officer would have him on his knees begging the Seeker’s forgiveness, but the words would be stumbling and slow. Blast Off had probably hoped the snapped insult hurled at Thundercracker in the middle of the last mission had been forgotten, but just because the Seeker hadn’t lashed out didn’t mean that he’d forgiven. 

There were better ways to punish prisoners than a beating. Cutting off Blast Off’s downloaded Earth-language files was a particularly humiliating one. The mech still didn’t know more than basic English, and his vocabulary in other languages was even worse. An impromptu language lesson would put him into Thundercracker’s debt quite nicely. Turning a punishment patrol into practice was no effort at all on the Seeker’s part, but it was nothing less than a miracle from Primus for the shuttle. 

The important part to Thundercracker was that, once one of the Combaticons owed him, they _all_ owed him.

Hmm. Maybe before he went out on patrol he’d take a little detour through the command deck. He could flash his polish at his wingmates. It’d get a second look from Skywarp, at least, although Starscream might only smile that dangerous smile of his. Perhaps Thrust would think Thundercracker was frantic to regain attention and trying to win his wing back by sheer physical looks. 

Oh, Thundercracker hoped the stupid mech thought that. He hoped Thrust shined himself up. He really hoped so. He wanted to see that. He wanted to see the jealousy bloom hot and fast over the stupid Conehead’s face when he realized Skywarp never even glanced in his direction. He wanted to be there when Thrust paraded himself around Starscream and got cut off at the knees by the Air Commander for wasting his time. 

Thundercracker’s handsome wings were the least of his attractions. Starscream didn’t tolerate pretty faces or nice wings when they weren’t backed up by ability. Any smiles thrown at his wingmates were sly acknowledgement of more than mere _looks_. Skywarp occasionally got one for a well-played prank. Thundercracker…no one else knew why the Air Commander smiled at Thundercracker. He was ‘the quiet one,’ after all. The weak link. 

No suspicions would be raised. There wouldn’t be a scandal roused or a rumor whispered, much less a note made in his personnel file. Broken bodies and their foolish ambitions were a tenuous connection at best, and there was never proof. And once all three Decepticon combiner teams finished putting Thrust through the wringer, the other Decepticons would be none the wiser that they should be searching for any. 

As Bonecrusher had said, Thundercracker didn’t have to worry. Not anymore.


End file.
